


Falling

by dilemmaed



Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: Andreil, Andrew Minyard Loves Neil Josten, Domestic, Explicit Language, Exy (All For The Game), Fluff and Angst, Hurt Neil Josten, M/M, POV Andrew Minyard, Post-The King's Men, Professional Exy (All For The Game), Protective Andrew Minyard, Soft Andrew Minyard, Soft Neil Josten/Andrew Minyard, andrew's only soft for neil
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-27
Updated: 2020-02-27
Packaged: 2021-02-28 07:02:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,555
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22919635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dilemmaed/pseuds/dilemmaed
Summary: “I told you always,” Neil said, blinking a few times in rapid succession, his words coming slow in an obvious attempt not to tangle them.“And I told you to stop it,” Andrew replied sharply.“I won’t,” Neil said, with a shrug of one shoulder, wincing still. “I’m stupid, remember?”“Doubtlessly so,” Andrew quipped.Neil let his head fall to the pillow, turning it so that he was looking at Andrew. His blue eyes flicked about the other man’s face, either studying him, or trying to read his expression, Andrew couldn’t tell. All he knew was that Neil’s gaze burned, felt like a flame licking too close to his skin, dangerous and unyielding.
Relationships: Neil Josten/Andrew Minyard
Comments: 38
Kudos: 595





	Falling

**Author's Note:**

> Hey! 
> 
> Two works within a week (!) Unheard of from me lol!
> 
> This is another Andreil piece, only my second one and my first from Andrew's POV, so please be kind! Let me know what you think! It's another one shot :)
> 
> This was a request from one of my friends and I took it in a different direction than I originally intended, but I like where it ended up!
> 
> It's a little angsty, a little fluffy and I hope you enjoy!
> 
> BTW: This is unbetaed so all mistakes are mine

He shouldn’t have come.

That was the first thought Andrew had as he walked in the double doors of the hospital, into the suffocating, ammonia-scented air. The scent reminded him of Easthaven, of Proust, of Drake, and he fought the urge to turn back around. 

Proust  _ wasn’t here _ , wasn’t even  _ alive _ .

He wouldn’t leave. He’d threatened airline employees, sped across highways, flew across state lines, left in the middle of an Exy game to be here. He’d get hell for it later, from his coach, his teammates, the press. Not that he cared. His fingers itched for his phone, to call Bee and tell her what happened, but he wouldn’t. Not yet. Not until he saw him.

There was a hum of voices, the sounds of telephones ringing, pages over the loudspeaker. He took a breath, walking up to the main desk, shoving his shaking fists into his pockets with as much composure as he could muster, though he knew that on the outside he was betraying nothing, not even a hint of an expression on his face.

The woman behind the desk was around Bee’s age, but she looked much older, crow’s feet and frown lines prominent on her face. She smiled at him, “What can I help you with, sir?”

Andrew wasn’t in the mood for niceties. He didn’t smile back, only tightening his fist, crescent-shaped imprints embedding themselves into his palm. “I need to see Josten. Neil Josten.” He said dismissively.

The woman, Deborah, if her name tag was any indication, gave him a smiling nod, typing away at her computer, at a pace too leisurely for Andrew’s current state of impatience. He just needed to get to him, needed someone to say the words, that he was stable, that he was okay, though, Andrew knew better than anyone that ‘okay’ was a relative term and he wouldn’t actually believe it unless the words came from Neil’s mouth. 

This woman was taking too long and he was entirely too tired for this. He’d traveled for eight hours to be here, on planes and in cars. And Andrew hated planes. And hospitals.  _ Oh, the things he did for Neil Josten _ , he thought to himself.

She hummed, “He’s restricted to family-only visitors. I can’t give you any more information than that, Mister…” She trailed off.

“Minyard. Andrew Minyard.” He huffed out. Andrew glared at the woman, “I’m his boyfriend.” 

The woman’s eyebrows shot up, nodding in understanding, typing something onto her computer. “Oh,” Deborah said, “I see it now. It says here you’re next of kin,” She said, a sad expression on her face, “does he not have any family?”

He didn’t like that word,  _ ‘family’ _ and he didn’t like the way she said it, as if it were a definable term. He didn’t like the expression on her face. Andrew ignored it, knowing that his annoyance was written plainly on his face. He was done with this conversation. “Where is he,” Not a question, a demand.

“Well, he just got out of recovery, and before that they had him in the ICU but now…” She trailed off, clicking something on her computer. Andrew wanted to put his fist through it.

He coughed, nostrils flaring impatiently. “The room number,” He said, raising his eyebrows slightly.

Deborah glanced up at him, tensing at Andrew’s expression, “Room 417.” She said, finally.

Andrew didn’t wait for her to give him a visitor’s badge or to hear her say anything else before stalking to the elevator, holding his finger on the ‘up’ button until the door opened. He was tapping his fist against his thigh, biting at the inside of his cheek. He pressed the button for the fourth floor, hoping it would shut before anyone else got inside.

He took a hand out of his pocket, pulling on the frayed string of his sweatshirt, examining it. His heart rate was more elevated than he’d like it to be, enough so that he could feel it fluttering against his ribcage each time it beat. 

He didn’t think about what happened to Neil, he didn’t think about what the doctors had told him when he spoke to them on the phone, he didn’t think about the footage he’d seen on the jumbotron of his own game in between halves, he didn’t think about the way Neil’s body had crumpled to the ground in a heap, the way they had to carry him off the court on a stretcher, unconscious. He didn’t think about how Neil had named him next of kin, or its implications, of how close the word was to ‘ _ family _ ’. He focused on the string, on the feeling of his nails biting against his palm. He let loose a long breath through his nose, like Bee always told him to.

By the time the door opened to the fourth floor, Andrew was convinced this was the slowest elevator in the world and absently wondered how many people might have died while waiting inside of it. He should have just taken the fucking stairs. He would have been up there in half the time, could have already  _ been _ there.

He stormed through the hallway, searching for room 417, dodging nurses with carts and doctors with clipboards. The woman at the desk cleared her throat as he passed by, but he didn’t stop. He was sure that she was wondering where the hell his visitor’s pass was. He couldn’t bring himself to even contemplate caring. It had been a long eight hours and he  _ needed _ to see him. 

He felt like he was falling, and to Andrew, to a man afraid of heights, it was the most horrible feeling in the world. He was plummeting and the only thing that might stop him is if he sees Neil, is able to look at him with his own eyes, touch him his own hands, assess the damage, as he once did, years ago on a hotel carpet in Baltimore.

_ 409, 411, 413, 415– _

Andrew stopped in his tracks, his breath catching in his throat. The door to room 417 was cracked open and he could hear the dull roar of some sitcom sputtering from the television. Andrew pushed open the door, his shaking fingers finding the handle. 

Stepping into the room, his eyes went straight to the figure on the bed, the familiar head of auburn hair settled on the pillow. He didn’t remember walking, but somehow he had made his way across the room and was standing next to Neil’s bed, his fingers grasping at the railing to keep from touching the man.

It had only been four days since he had last seen Neil, last seen his eyes open, since he’d lay next to him in their bed, since he’d kissed him. Objectively knew that it wasn't a long time, but a lot had happened in the last twelve hours to make it feel like it had been weeks. Looking at him now, it was hard to reconcile the man he’d left back in their apartment and the one lying here in this bed.

Neil was unconscious, a mess of bandages covering his scarred chest, a cast on his arm, his right shoulder in a sling. He knew Neil’s injuries; the doctors had spoken to him over the phone when he was back in Seattle, before he’d gotten on his plane. They’d needed his permission to perform surgery.  _ His _ , not Neil’s, since the man had been unconscious at the time.  _ He _ had to make this decision for Neil, didn’t get to give him a choice. It didn’t settle well with Andrew. He didn’t like the fact that Neil wasn’t being given a choice, didn’t like that Neil had  _ trusted _ him with this choice, hoping he’d make the right one. It didn’t seem fair to him. Andrew gripped the railing harder. He couldn’t stop looking at him. His fingers ached to reach out, to have physical confirmation that Neil’s heart was beating, that his skin was still warm to touch, the way it always was.

The footage had been brutal. His eidetic memory wouldn’t let him forget it, replaying the image over and over. One minute, Neil, faster than any player in the game had been gunning toward the goal, ball in racquet, the next, he had been thrown against the wall like a ragdoll, so hard, you could hear the crack that his shoulder made. The player who did it, a man named Jacob Olson, had been suspended for three games. He’d torn Neil’s rotator cuff slightly, had fractured his thumb, bruised three ribs, hit him so hard he had a minor concussion and all he got was three games. If Andrew had been there, he would have killed the man, would have killed him before he even realized what he’d done.

He knew Neil would be devastated once he woke up, saying some shit about not being able to play now for at least the first half of the season. He knew that was all that Neil would care about, not the way it hurt, not how he might scar, but about Exy. The sport meant more to Neil than Andrew could ever understand, but he wished that Neil wouldn’t have to be put out on medical, if only to spare him the man’s whining about it. 

A gentle clearing of a throat drew Andrew from his reverie, to the tall figure standing in the doorway. He gestured for Andrew to follow him out into the hall, but he found that his feet wouldn’t move, his hands wouldn’t detach themselves from the rail. Logically, he knew that he would only be leaving for a minute, that he was only moving a few feet away, but all the same, he wanted to remain within sight distance of Neil. 

Closing his eyes a moment, Andrew forced himself to let go, putting one foot in front of the other, pushing the traces of emotion he had been feeling into his gut, the cool indifference taking over once again.

He introduced himself, putting out his hand, offering it to Andrew to shake, but he just looked at it expectantly until the man dropped it to his side awkwardly. The man, Neil’s doctor, spoke to him, detailing the extent of his injuries, the surgery, his recovery time, told him that Neil was heavily sedated, but Andrew only heard one thing: Neil was okay, or, at least, he was going to be. He wouldn’t believe him until he saw Neil open his eyes, hear the words come from his lips, but it settled something in Andrew for now.

He gave the doctor a curt nod once he gauged that the man had finished speaking. Andrew had a knack for making people uncomfortable, and he wished that the doctor would fall prey to that. He wanted the man to leave, to let him go back to Neil’s side. He didn’t travel this far to stand in the hallway talking to some asshole in a white coat. He’d talked to enough doctors in his life to know that he didn’t like them.

After what felt like an eternity, the doctor said, “Press the call button if either of you need anything. The nurses will be in and out, monitoring his morphine drip, changing his bandages. I’ll be back in the morning.” 

Andrew nodded again, fixing the man with an impatient gaze. Seeming unsure of what to make of Andrew, the doctor quirked his eyebrow with uncertainty, before walking away.

As the man departed down the hall, Andrew was entering the threshold of the room again, making his way back to Neil’s side. He closed the door behind him, allowing himself to be truly alone with Neil, at least, for the moment. He was still in the same position as he had been before, asleep, a small furrow in his brow, the way there almost always was when he slept, as if Neil was always burdened, by his past, by his present. His cheeks were pink, his mouth slightly agape, his head crooked at an angle that must have been uncomfortable.

There was a small mess of tubes sticking out of his arm, morphine and IV solution. There was a button on the table next to Neil’s bed, the one that would give him more pain medication if need be. 

There was a small bandage on his forehead that he didn’t see before, having been covered slightly by his hair. Before he could stop himself, Andrew’s fingers were brushing through Neil’s locks, examining the nature of the cut through the bandage. There was a small bit of red bleeding through, but that was all. Andrew released a breath, his knees buckling at the relief he felt just from running his fingers through the soft auburn strands. It was a small balm to the insurmountable panic he was feeling, but it was enough to steady him for the moment.

Andrew closed his eyes a moment, focusing on the familiar feeling. Neil’s hair was sticking to his forehead in places, but it was only sweat, not blood. 

_ Not blood _ , he assured himself. 

He sifted through the locks as gently as Andrew could manage. He wasn’t used to being gentle; it wasn’t something that came easy to him, but he tried his best to ease some of the roughness from his touch, despite the sense of urgency that was plaguing him.

He sunk down into the chair next to Neil’s bed, lifting it and pulling it closer, parallel to the man himself. He stuck his hand through the rail, placing it next to Neil’s, not daring to touch his skin. Neil’s breath was coming and going easily, the ghost of it warming Andrew’s hand where it sat. His heart was finally beginning to calm in his chest, though he could still hear its beat in his ears over the sounds of the television. He tried to focus on the beeping of the EKG attached to Neil, the steady constant of his heartbeat, rather than on the panic in his blood at being here, in a hospital room. 

Andrew pulled out his phone to check the time, flicking through the countless messages he had from his former teammates who, by now, had doubtlessly heard–or seen–what had happened to Neil. All of them had texted him, including Wymack and Abby, asking about Neil, asking about  _ him _ , which, to Andrew, seemed ridiculous. He wasn’t the one bedridden in a drug-induced haze. He wasn’t the one who had been thrown against a wall like he was a child’s toy. 

He allowed his fingers to brush the strands of Neil’s hair once more, pushing it away from his forehead.

“An-Andrew?” A scratchy voice asked.

His hand stilled in Neil’s hair. Andrew’s head snapped up from his phone to meet bright blue eyes, lids hooded, pupils blown wide from the drugs in his system. But they were still Neil’s eyes. And they were open, looking at him, brow furrowed as if he were having trouble focusing. 

“You’re an idiot, you know that?” Andrew said tonelessly.

Neil managed to move the fingers on his good arm to brush Andrew’s, which were still on his pillow, hovering for a moment still, even in his state. Their fingertips touched and Andrew felt like he could breathe again. He’d never admit it aloud, but that single touch was enough to still most of the consternation stirring inside him. At that moment, it felt as if he’d finally stopped falling, violently hitting solid ground. 

“I-I’ve been told,” Neil murmured. “Water?” 

Andrew rolled his eyes, “Needy.”

Breaking the contact between their fingers, Andrew stood up, depositing his phone into his pocket as he reached for the water pitcher sitting on the tray next to his chair. When he turned back around, Neil was struggling to sit up in his bed with his new injuries and the use of only one arm. 

“Easy, cripple.” Andrew said, shaking his head at the man.

Neil had managed to pull himself somewhat upright, peeling his face away from his pillow. He winced as he shifted on the mattress, his good hand fisting the sheets with white knuckles. Neil was struggling with the placement of the pillow against his back, unable to find a position that would suit his no-doubt sore ribs. He wasn’t going to ask Andrew for help, he was too stubborn for that, but Andrew wasn’t going to stand there and watch a drugged Neil flail for the next half an hour. 

Andrew sighed, putting the water glass back down onto the tray. “Lean forward.” He said to Neil. 

The man complied, hissing through his teeth. Andrew lifted the pillow, placing it behind Neil’s shoulders. He took hold of his good one, guiding him back against it. He reached over, grabbing the television remote, pressing the button to incline the bed. As he held it, he watched some of the tension bleed out of Neil’s face, frenzied blue eyes watching him. He brought his good hand to Andrew’s, swiping a thumb across his wrist in a silent show of thanks. 

Andrew handed him the water cup once he was sure that Neil wasn’t going to fall over in his bed. He slumped back into his chair, watching as Neil gulped down the whole glass. He was looking at Andrew  _ that _ way. With big blue eyes, a sort of wonder to them that made him want to tell him to stop. He had lines on his face from his pillow, creasing the scarred skin of his cheek and his hair was sticking up from where Andrew had been running his fingers through it. He looked so vulnerable in a way that Neil almost never was, in the way he only was when he was solely in Andrew’s company. His eyes, though, his eyes were dazed, seeing, but not really seeing. Andrew briefly wondered how much morphine they were pumping into him.

“You’re here.” Neil said, sounding surprised and delirious, though he tried to mask his tone. 

“Keen observation, Josten.” Andrew said, a bored expression plain on his face. He flicked a hand as if to dismiss the statement.

“You were supposed to be in Seattle,” said Neil, visibly struggling to get the words out of his mouth in the right order. He fixed Andrew with a confused countenance, studying him blearily. For a man so thoroughly narcotized, Neil looked astoundingly composed.

“Well, I’m here now.” Andrew said plainly, as if he hadn’t flown across the country, hadn’t stepped out in the middle of a game to be here.

Neil pondered for a moment, or, was lost in a morphine-induced hallucination, Andrew didn’t know, but it seemed that, for the moment, he slipped away. 

“Did we win?” He asked, tilting his head to the side, his fingers playing with his empty cup.

Andrew snorted. “You’re fucking kidding me, Junkie.” He shook his head. “You’re worse than Kevin.”

“Well,” Neil said, gesturing in such a drunken manner that actually  _ did _ remind Andrew of Kevin, “I just want to know if it was worth it. If we lost, then this was for nothing.” His eyes were wild, but never did they stray from the blond man sitting next to him.

Andrew rolled his eyes. “You won. 10-7.”

Neil closed his eyes then, a dumb, sated smile crossing his face. Andrew wanted to trace the shape of his lips with his thumb, map them out as he had so many times before. Because Neil was alive. He was doped up beyond belief, but he was alive. But Andrew knew, better than anyone, that Neil wasn’t in the frame of mind for something like that, no matter how badly he himself might need a distraction. 

“You named me next of kin,” He said, not a question.

Neil only hummed, opening his clouded eyes. “Who else was I supposed to name?”

Andrew had no answer for that. Wymack? One of the other Foxes? No. Neil didn’t have anyone else.

“I told you always,” Neil said, blinking a few times in rapid succession, his words coming slow in an obvious attempt not to tangle them.

“And I told you to stop it,” Andrew replied sharply.

“I won’t,” Neil said, with a shrug of one shoulder, wincing still. “I’m stupid, remember?”

“Doubtlessly so,” Andrew quipped.

Neil let his head fall to the pillow, turning it so that he was looking at Andrew. His blue eyes flicked about the other man’s face, either studying him, or trying to read his expression, Andrew couldn’t tell. All he knew was that Neil’s gaze burned, felt like a flame licking too close to his skin, dangerous and unyielding. Andrew brought his foot up onto his chair, hugging his knee to his chest. 

“Staring,” He said absently, his cool gaze meeting Neil’s as they settled on Andrew’s hazel eyes.

The other man only shrugged as best as he could with one arm. “That’s my sweatshirt,” Neil observed, squinting hard, sounding somewhat vacant.

Andrew was wearing the extra pair of sweatpants he kept in his duffle bag, but he hadn’t noticed until he put it on, that the sweatshirt he had taken from their apartment the day he left, was Neil’s. He should have realized immediately; Andrew tended to take better care of his clothes and this sweatshirt had seen better days, small holes peeking through the cuffs.

Andrew didn’t deign an answer, fixing Neil with a stare. They were silent for a moment, the only sounds were the low rumble of the television and the beeping of Neil’s EKG.

“How bad did it look?” Neil asked, dropping his stare down to where his hand was bunched in the sheets, pointedly not looking at Andrew.

“Bad,” was all Andrew said. 

Neil nodded, dragging his eyes up, “I’m–”

Andrew cut him off, fixing him with a glare, “Don’t you dare fucking say you’re fine when we both know you’re not.”

Neil swallowed hard, nodding once more.

Andrew’s ire cooled in the silence, fading back down into his gut. His fist was still clenched into the pocket of his sweatshirt, his eyes unwavering. He knew from just looking at him that Neil wasn’t fine. There was so much, Neil’s injuries, the unsteadiness of his movements, that reminded Andrew of Baltimore, of kneeling on that carpet, of peeling back the bandage on Neil’s cheek to see the massacred skin beneath. Right now, he wanted to do the same thing to his chest, to scope out the damage done, to see it for himself. 

Neil finally spoke, trying again, his words slurring, “Feels like I was hit by a truck on I-20.” 

“Looks like it too.” Andrew said, sweeping his eyes over Neil’s body.

Neil snorted, wincing. He only paused for a moment, seemingly incapable of keeping his mouth shut, despite the fact that he was barely able to form coherent sentences. “How long am I out for?” He asked.

“10 weeks, at least.” Andrew stated. It was what the doctor had told him out in the hall when he’d only been half-listening. This was a question Andrew knew was coming, and he had been keeping a mental tally of the minutes it took for Neil to get the words out.

“Fuck.” Neil cursed, bringing his fist to his forehead, hissing as it came into contact with the bandage he obviously didn’t know was there. Andrew could feel the frustration coming off Neil in waves, could sense him trying to hold onto it.

They sat in silence after that, Andrew getting Neil another glass of water, even when he didn’t ask, pushing it into his hand when he protested. As much as his hands begged him to, he didn’t touch Neil, but he didn’t protest when the man reached over and slotted his hand with Andrew’s own. His eyes were fixed on the television, on whatever late night program was on, though he wasn’t really watching, nor could he hear it well. He could feel Neil watching him through blown pupils, not saying a word.

A nurse came in shortly after, changed Neil’s IV bag, making sure he was getting enough morphine, enough fluids, asking him to rate his pain. She asked Neil if he needed something to help him sleep, though he refused. He doubted that Neil would even have trouble sleeping when he was this heavily drugged, though he knew that wasn’t why Neil refused, for, even from a distance, Andrew could see the distrust toward the woman in Neil’s eyes.

Through this, Andrew watched languidly from his chair, only straying closer when the woman brought a syringe to Neil’s arm, flushing out his IV. Andrew stood near, wanting to make sure he had a clear view of what the woman was doing. As nice as the woman seemed, he didn’t trust anyone who came too close with a sharp object to a sober person, let alone someone as incapacitated as Neil. Andrew wasn’t even sure Neil could sit up on his own in this state, let alone fight back if someone tried to harm him, so he drew as close to Neil as possible without touching, watched as the smiling nurse talked Neil through what she was doing, explaining to him that she’d bring him solid food whenever he wanted it once the kitchen opened again in the morning. 

Neil had nodded in response, giving the occasional “okay”, the word seemingly sticking to his tongue. Before she left, she asked Andrew if he needed a pillow, to which he declined. She seemed unsettled by him, as most people were, save Neil, but she smiled at him regardless, before ducking out of the room with the promise that she’d return in a few hours.

Andrew’s hand found Neil’s hair again, running his fingers through in a way that soothed him as much as Neil enjoyed it. The man hummed in contentment, leaning into Andrew’s touch like it was the only thing grounding him to this earth. Neil had a soft smile on his lips, the half-drunken, sated smile of the keeper of a secret no one else knew.

“I hate you.” Andrew said vacantly.

“Sure, sure,” Neil whispered with effort, his smile only deepening, his eyes hooded, watching the blond man’s movements. 

Andrew’s hand swept down Neil’s face, brushing against the bandage on his forehead so gently, he doubted Neil even felt it until he shivered beneath his touch. Andrew’s thumb came to rest against the burns on his cheek, so crudely healed, but distinct in a way that made him  _ Neil _ , that allowed Andrew to find him, to identify him, even with his eyes closed, even in the dark, to distinguish him from those who never gave him a choice, from those who didn’t ask ‘yes or no’, from the ones who wouldn’t stop.

He watched his finger move in circles, exploring the map of scars on Neil’s cheekbones he had committed to memory long ago. Neil blew out a soft breath through his mouth, his eyes drifting shut, though he was trying to keep his eyes open and on Andrew. He bit at his lip in a way that drew Andrew’s eyes, though he doubted Neil would have noticed even if he wasn’t falling further into delirium with each passing moment.

Andrew pulled his hand away from Neil’s warmed skin, lowering his bed back down so he could sleep, adjusting his pillow before Neil could ask, easing himself back into his chair. Neil’s eyes fluttered back open the moment Andrew’s hand left his face, weary with exhaustion. His lucidity was fading fast now, the morphine kicking in once more. 

“C’mere,” Neil said, gesturing toward himself lazily with his hand.

“No,” Andrew said, his fingers digging into his palm. “I won’t.” He looked pointedly at Neil.

_ I won’t be like them. I won’t let you let me be. _

The words went unspoken, though Andrew could tell Neil understood even now, at least to some degree, though he looked at Andrew with big, pleading eyes regardless, filled with such vulnerability. Andrew wanted to hit him for being so stupid. 

“No,” Andrew said again.

Neil let out a small noise of protest. “Just,” he said, swallowing, words obviously becoming more difficult for him. “Just lay with me.”

Andrew shook his head.

“No kissing,” Neil swore, “I promise.” His voice was desperate, his words slipping. His eyes were fighting to stay open and Neil seemed to recognize that it was a losing battle.

Andrew sighed, closing his eyes. He rubbed at his temples before meeting Neil’s gaze. “You only want me to lay next to you?” He asked, “Nothing else?”

Neil nodded, whispering again, “I promise.”

Andrew stood up. Neil’s eyes opened the slightest bit more, icy blue glimmering in the low lighting. He kicked off his shoes next to Neil’s bed, climbing over the railing and onto the mattress on the side of Neil’s uninjured shoulder. Neil shifted over as best as he could, but they were still close together, their shoulders pressed against one another. 

“This okay?” Neil mumbled, his eyes already closing.

“Yeah,” Andrew replied. He wasn’t particularly comfortable, and he knew he wouldn’t sleep well, not in a hospital, but it  _ was _ okay.

Neil put his head on Andrew’s shoulder, something that, once, he would have flinched at, or pulled away, but he did none of those things now. They slept next to each other in their bed, sometimes touching, sometimes not, something that had eased over time. This bed was smaller than the bunks back at Fox Tower and, despite the men’s size, they’d never slept this pressed together before without the option to spread out, if need be. Andrew tried to bring himself to relax, muscle by muscle, telling himself that he  _ wasn’t _ trapped. Neil was a familiar figure, perhaps the most familiar of all, and for now, he was okay with the proximity, the feeling of Neil’s weight settled next to his, the sensation of being touching almost everywhere at once.

He could feel Neil’s breaths against his neck, each one a reminder that he was still breathing, that, despite everything, Neil was alive. Andrew listened as they evened out, as most of the tension bled out of his frame as he faded into a gentle sleep. 

Andrew had been staring up at the ceiling for some time, unable to rest in spite of being so thoroughly sleep-deprived when he heard Neil’s voice, low and muffled against the skin of his neck, the words almost incoherent.

“I love you, Andrew.” He said.

Andrew’s body went taut, all of the breath leaving his body in one fell swoop. He didn’t move, he wouldn’t, unless he wanted to wake Neil. It felt as if he had been hit in the gut with an Exy racquet, as if he had been the one thrown against the court walls.

He knew that Neil probably wouldn’t remember saying those words to him in the morning, when he was awake and sober, but Andrew would never forget them, would never forget the way Neil’s lips felt against his neck as he spoke, the way his breath had been hot. He would never forget what it was like to hear those words come from Neil’s mouth, to hear them directed  _ at _ him.

Andrew couldn’t breathe. He could feel Neil around him, pressed against him and felt like he was suffocating, drowning in the words. He didn’t move.

No one had ever said those words to him before and meant it.

He bunched the sheets in his fist, looking up at the ceiling, his eyes unblinking. His body was still tense, his mind hearing the words, hearing Neil speak them. They were words he had once desired to hear so deeply that he’d endured Drake, just for a chance to hear them from Cass’s lips. They were words he’d thought he’d never hear, never thought he wanted to hear after that. Andrew fought against tremors that attempted to wrack his body, fought against the urge to call Bee, to tell her everything. 

Andrew would never admit it, not aloud, not to Neil, maybe not even to Bee, but the words scared him. Three simple words, their implications, scared Andrew more than anything had scared him in years. Since Binghamton, since Neil’s dead stare, the tension in his smile when he had spoken, ‘ _ you were amazing’ _ . Since he’d found a discarded racquet, duffle bag, and a phone, a text message on it with only a single number. 

It scared him because it  _ did _ feel like falling, because, everything about Neil felt as dangerous as it did comfortable, left him feeling as if he could crash to the ground at any moment, shattering to pieces and this time, he wasn’t sure he could survive the fallout.

~~~~~~~~

In the early hours of the morning, the word creeped on Andrew’s tongue, rolling around in his throat, threatening to unravel him.

He licked his lips, taking in a breath through his mouth. His heart was beating loudly in his chest, his breathing accelerated. Sure that no one, not even Neil would hear him, Andrew spoke, testing the words into the stale air and silence that lay between them, words he’d never in his life spoken out loud.

“I love you,” he said, and that was all.

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah, yeah I know what Nora says, but I reject that. I like to think that they are able to heal enough to be able to say it.
> 
> Anyway, I hope you enjoyed the story and please, please don't hesitate to leave comments or Kudos; I love hearing feedback from my readers!
> 
> Feel free to follow me on tumblr for writing updates, etc at dilemma-ed and check out my other works For Everything (Andreil) and To The Fallen (a Dramione war fic)
> 
> I'm still really new to writing aftg, so please lmk in the comments what you'd like to see me write prompt wise, etc !
> 
> Until next time,  
> Em :)


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